


To the top and throw me off

by socknonny



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Because of Alcohol and lack of communication, Dubious Consent, M/M, Mild Breathplay, Pining, Semi-Public Sex, Under-negotiated Kink, but please mind that if it's a trigger, hints of Steve having a non-con kink but no non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:13:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23137495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/socknonny/pseuds/socknonny
Summary: A moment of escape in the middle of a crowded concert.Steve runs into Billy after months of being ignored, and it's like last summer never happened. Maybe they both need a chance to forget.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 10
Kudos: 192





	To the top and throw me off

**Author's Note:**

> Please mind the tags. In my opinion the kinks are pretty tamely explored (so if you're hard into that, you might be disappointed) BUT these aren't triggers for me so I don't have a good gauge of what's mild and what isn't. So please read and mind!!

“Fuck this shit is loud,” Steve yells in Robin’s ear.

It’s still only the support act, and Steve’s already regretting his offer to come. For some reason, Robin turns to him and starts laughing, only making the rough swirl of agitation in his stomach cut deeper. The thick press of the crowd swells around him, surging forward and backwards as their energy sways with the music. Steve’s so out of touch; every time the crowd rushes in one direction, he’s trying to move in the other, and he keeps getting knocked off his feet.

She yells something back, but he can’t hear it.

“What?” he snaps, glaring at the guitarist as he makes the instrument squeal. 

“It’s their name.” She shakes her head at him, mock-disappointed, and he frowns for a second until he remembers the name on the ticket.

 _Loudness_ . Right. He rolls his eyes and tries to hide the fondness on his face. It’s only going to get louder when Mötley Crüe appear, and he wants to save a little of his disgruntlement for then, just to remind Robin how much he’s suffering.

“Have you seen her yet?” He shifts backwards in the crowd, so he’s standing behind Robin and doesn’t have to lean so awkwardly forward.

Robin shakes her head, nose wrinkling in disappointment, and Steve no longer regrets his offer. So Robin wants to impress some chick in a really annoying way; who cares? Steve’s honored to be her wingman. He steadies himself against her shoulder and leans away from the sweat-flicked headbanging of the guy beside him. Weirdly, he thinks the crowd should stink, but while there _is_ a scent of beer and parties, there’s also a lot of… shampoo. Too many guys with meticulously-washed hair full of hairspray, whipping their locks around without care. It’s kind of a nice smell. And there’s no vomit, like at a party, so that’s already a plus.

It makes Steve think of… well. He doesn’t like to admit who it makes him think of. Particularly when the person in question has ignored Steve completely in the months since he returned from the military hospital that resurrected him after the battle of starcourt.

And Steve _means_ resurrected. The guy was dead. Steve saw it. Steve fucking grieved for it. And now—nothing.

“Shit,” Robin hisses, the sound so urgent that it’s somehow audible over the pulsating crowd. 

Steve turns to where she’s looking and sees a tall girl with a denim jacket covered in patches and safety pins. He grins and shoves Robin towards her, ignoring the panicked glance she darts back at him. The crowd goes the right way for once, and Robin is propelled forward by a writhing sea of sweat and hairspray, landing right by the girl’s shoulder.

The girl—Jo—turns around, and her eyes widen in surprise and unmistakeable delight. Steve grins; he isn’t needed at all.

Taking a well-earned break from the noise, he shoves his way over to the bar, where the servers don’t give a shit about age and hand him beer without looking at anything except the cash in his hand. When he gets there, he downs one beer immediately and buys another to take his time with, slipping into the darkened alcove beside the bar to drink it. He stumbles a little as he fumbles past the half-open velvet curtain concealing the nook, saving his drink from falling at the last second. Then he chokes on it when he sees who’s standing next to him.

Billy Hargrove stares at him over the top of his drink, face unreadable. But the blank expression disappears the second he sees Steve looking, and is slowly replaced by a wicked grin.

“What the hell are you doing here, pretty boy?”

They’re the first words Billy has said to Steve in months, and for some reason, they make Steve see red. He drains the rest of his second beer, eyes fixed to Billy’s, and crumples the cup to drop it at their feet.

“I’m here to see the band,” Steve snaps, like it’s obvious, like he’d ever voluntarily step foot inside somewhere like this.

Billy snorts, eyebrows lifting. “Oh yeah? What’s their name?”

“Which one? Mötley Crüe? Or Loudness?” Steve crosses his arms and leans back against the alcove wall.

Billy nods slowly, impressed. Then he leans in, arm propped above Steve’s head, lip curled in a mean grin. “What’s your favorite song?”

Steve swallows. “The one with…” He trails off, hyper aware of the heated skin pressed to his, the sweat-soaked chest beneath the open vee of Billy’s shirt that slides against Steve’s arm. Why the fuck did he take his jacket off? This would never have happened if he hadn’t taken off his jacket, and…

Billy’s eyes drop to where Steve is looking—the drop of sweat that beads between Billy’s pecs and trails onto the folded cross of Steve’s arms. He grins, tongue tracing along the line of his lips, and it’s like last summer never happened, like Billy never bled out on the mall floor and somehow came back to life in a military fucking hospital that should never have existed.

Steve’s breath grows ragged as he forces his eyes back up to Billy’s face, watching as Billy slowly follows, gaze trailing along Steve’s collar, his jaw, his lips, before finally resting on his eyes. It occurs to Steve that maybe Billy needs this, this return to normalcy like they’re just two people at a concert instead of two fucked-up assholes with a history they’ll never outrun. Maybe that’s why Billy is finally talking to him, taunting him, like nothing has changed.

It occurs to Steve—slowly, dumbly—that Billy isn’t taunting him.

Billy wets his lips. Says slowly, his voice a drawn-out slide of gravel, “What’s your favorite song?”

“Take me to the top,” Steve murmurs without thinking, brain latching onto the only song he can remember from Robin’s cassette.

Billy grins. His voice is so low now, Steve can barely hear it. “Is that right?”

 _Fuck_. Steve’s heart flutters in his chest, and suddenly the concert doesn’t sound so loud at all. Everything fades, the seconds dragging out like years as he wonders if Billy is going to kiss him.

And then he does, and every sound comes rushing back. The screaming of the crowd, the wailing of the guitars, the gasping hitch of Billy’s breath as he shoves Steve back against the wall and _takes_ —it’s all equally loud, equally overwhelming, like Steve can’t discern what’s important from the noise.

Billy shoves his thigh between Steve’s legs, forcing his stance wider. There’s a thudding, hammering sensation in Steve’s chest, and he can’t tell if it’s the music, Billy’s pulse, or his own heart. Is Billy fucking serious? Is he—

Steve loses all thought as Billy tilts his head and leans back in, coaxing Steve’s mouth apart with his lips, his tongue teasing him. Steve’s head feels dizzy, the taste of alcohol mixing between them. He can taste it, taste _Billy_ and he doesn’t know why the fuck Billy is doing this because it must be a joke. Billy doesn’t even _like_ him.

He pulls back just enough to snap, “What the f—”, but Billy cuts him off before he can finish, hand clamped tight over Steve’s mouth.

Steve’s breath hitches, pulse leaping in his throat, and he doesn’t mean to… he can’t help it… but he moans, eyes fluttering closed, knees sinking just enough that the only thing holding him up is the fingers digging into his jaw.

When he opens his eyes—sheepish, overwhelmed, wishing the ground would swallow him—Billy is staring. It’s the first time Steve has ever seen a flush like that on Billy’s cheeks, the first time he’s ever seen Billy’s eyes so wide and guileless. The bass thuds beneath their feet, so distinct from Steve’s rapid heartbeat it’s ridiculous he ever confused the two. A small group surges towards the bar, yelling and laughing, but the two of them are hidden in their alcove, the shadow of the mantel concealing them from view.

Billy reaches out, slowly, and tugs the black velvet curtain a little further across, hiding them a little more, and Steve’s stomach flips. He forgets how to breathe, stuttering beneath the hand on his mouth, palms whipping back to clutch against the wall as his body panics. Ragged breaths drag through his nostrils, too fast, almost useless.

Billy’s hand slackens, but doesn’t leave. He watches Steve, silent, still, the only movement the rise and fall of his bare chest. But even that motion is fast. Erratic. The bead of sweat that captivated Steve earlier has slid over one nipple, the shirt cast to the side to reveal more than even Billy usually would. Steve wants to lick it free, but Billy’s hand isn’t moving and… he doesn’t want to admit it, but… Steve likes that.

Doesn't just like it. He fucking loves it. Wants more of it.

His eyes slide back to Billy’s, and he slowly, deliberately, uses the quarter inch of space Billy has given his mouth to lick Billy’s fingers.

This time, it’s Billy who groans, heavy and panting into the shadowed space around them. He pushes into Steve again, thigh grinding against Steve’s dick, fingers gripping into Steve’s jaw again.

“Hold on tight, pretty boy,” he growls into Steve’s ear, and the next thing Steve knows there is a hand on his fly, roughly tugging his jeans down around his hips.

The band screams in beyond the curtain, the final notes of some song echoing across the crowd, and then Steve can hear them thanking the crowd, saying goodnight. The darkness in their alcove fades a little as the house lights return, and the buzz of the milling crowd grows louder, hundreds of people flocking to the bar only feet away from their hiding place.

 _Fuck_ , Steve thinks, but doesn’t say because even though Billy spins him around to face the wall, his hand remains fixed over Steve’s lips. There’s the sound of spit hitting flesh, and then a painful but not wholly uncomfortable sensation below. Then the sensation grows, Billy’s cock entering him while Billy’s teeth clamp down on his shoulder, the heated whimper that drops from Billy’s lips the only thing anchoring Steve when he wants nothing more than to fall.

Unexpectedly, Billy pauses, the hand clamped around Steve’s mouth pulling away just enough for him to speak.

“Doing okay, there, Harrington?” he murmurs, other hand sliding to hold Steve’s hips, cock pressed fully inside him.

Steve can feel the tension in Billy’s thighs, the urgency to move. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Billy’s forearm, taught with muscle as he holds his palm stiffly away from Steve’s mouth and waits for an answer. For a moment, he considers saying no, just to see what Billy would do. If he would stop. He doesn’t. Instead, he licks his lips and says, “Fuck me, Billy.”

Billy does, groaning and snapping his thighs forward. Laughter bleeds through the half-open curtain, and with his face against the wall, Steve can’t tell if it’s directed at them. Doesn’t know if anyone can see. He thinks the light might be dimmer now, like the house lights are off again, but he doesn’t know. Has no sense of time passing or how long they’ve been in here.

The slick of spit coating Billy’s dick isn’t enough, the sensation dragging inside him, but Steve fucking loves it. Can’t get enough of it. Drops his forehead against the wall and sticks his ass back and gives in.

It doesn’t take long. He feels Billy stutter and moan behind him, movements erratic as a familiar drum beat starts up and the crowd goes wild. With a hysterical laugh, muffled by Billy’s hand, Steve realizes it’s _Take Me To The Top._ The heated breath against his neck as Billy laughs too, mid-orgasm, tells Steve he hears it, too, and the hand on Steve’s hip shifts to his dick. Billy pumps him lazily, roughly, and it’s embarrassingly quick when Steve cries out, muffled into Billy’s palm, and comes all over the black curtain.

He fumbles for his jeans, dizzy with the looseness of his orgasm and the building rush of alcohol beneath his skin, the drinks he sculled hitting him all at once. Somehow he gets himself done up while the fumbling of fabric behind him and the rush of a zipper tells him Billy is doing the same. He almost doesn’t want to turn around, doesn’t want to face whatever _that_ was, but then there’s a hand in his hair, tugging him close, and Billy’s lips are on his one last time.

It’s slower now, the urgency gone, and yet it’s over much too quick. The lights of the show skim across their hiding place, dancing greens and pinks lighting up Billy’s face. Steve can’t read his expression, but it’s somehow different to earlier. He thinks, now, that he almost could understand what Billy was feeling, if he had the time to work it out. If he tried.

“I’ll see you after the show, pretty boy,” Billy whispers, and it hits Steve like a lightning bolt: Billy is hesitant. 

It isn’t in Billy’s face; it’s in his voice, the new quietness to his tone that was never there before last summer. Billy has changed, but maybe it isn’t how Steve thought. For the first time, he stops wishing Billy would pay him attention again, and wishes he had more time to watch Billy instead.

Then, it occurs to him, he can.

“See you after the show,” he agrees, a promise, and relishes the surprised smile that flits across Billy’s face—there and gone again as quick as a strobing flash of light.

He disappears, then, and Steve cherishes the warm feeling in his chest for a few more seconds before he steps out from behind the curtain and goes to find out if Robin got lucky, too.

**Author's Note:**

> Ficlet I wrote ages ago and figured it was as good a time as any to post. 
> 
> Hope you're all doing alright out there in whatever stages of isolation and containment you're in. [Tumblr](socknonny.tumblr.com) DMs are always open. Don't let the enforced social distancing make you feel alone.


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